Behold the Dreamers(38)
“No, madam.”
“I won’t ever forget the night I told my mother I wanted shrimp and vegetables for dinner. Such a luxury, how dare I ask for it? She slapped me and sent me to bed hungry. That was her thing. A slap or a reminder that I was just a piece of shit.”
She cleared her throat.
Neni looked down at her hands, then Cindy’s face.
“But I came away from all that, as you can see. I worked my way through college, got a job, my own apartment, learned how to carry myself well and fit effortlessly in this new world so I would never be looked down on again, or seen as a piece of shit. Because I know what I am, and no one can ever take away the things I’ve achieved for myself.”
“It’s true, madam.”
Cindy picked up her teaspoon, stirred her coffee again. She put down the teaspoon and looked at Neni, whose eyes were now lowered.
“Why am I telling you all this, Neni?” she asked.
“I don’t … I don’t know, madam,” Neni replied, her voice low and loaded with fright.
“I’m telling you this because I want you to know where I came from and why I fight hard every day to remain here. To keep my family together. To have all this.” She spread her arm and motioned toward the house and the pool and the yard. “I’m telling you this,” she said, her eyes fixed on Neni’s face, “because I want you to never tell anyone what happened yesterday.”
“I swear to you, madam, on my grandmother’s grave, that I will never tell anyone.”
“You are a woman, Neni. A wife, a mother, like me. I am asking you to make this promise to me not as from an employee to an employer but as from one woman to another, as from one who knows how important it is to protect our families.”
“I swear to you, madam. I promise you, from one woman to another.”
Cindy laid open her right hand on the table, and Neni put hers in it.
“Thank you,” Cindy said, smiling her first smile of the day and squeezing Neni’s hand.
Neni smiled back.
“You’re a good woman.”
Neni bowed her head and nodded. Cindy released her hand. Neni stood up and began walking back to the kitchen.
“By the way,” Cindy said, “what size clothes do you wear? When you’re not pregnant, that is.”
Neni took a few steps back toward Cindy. “Size six, madam,” she replied.
“That’s bigger than me,” Cindy said, the smile still on her face, “but I think you can make do. I have a few things I was going to send over to the thrift store.”
“Oh, madam, yes, thank you. I’ll take it. I know how to alter clothes. Thank you—”
“They’re real designer goods,” Cindy said, crossing her legs and picking up her iPhone. “Dresses and stuff. I’m not sure if it’s your style, but you can have it all.”
“Thank you, madam! I’ll take it all. I’ll make it my style. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll have some things for your son, too. Mighty’s old clothes and toys. You can take it all when you leave.”
“Oh, madam, I am so glad. I don’t even know how to thank you.”
“And remind me of your bonus before you leave. You’ll need some extra money to prepare for the baby.”
“We will, madam, I will!” Neni sang, placing her hand on her chest, then over her belly. “Thank you so much, madam. I am just so grateful.”
Cindy looked at the gleeful woman and smiled again.
Neni smiled back at her.
They had found a win-win solution.
Twenty
LIOMI SAT NEXT TO HIM IN THE PASSENGER SEAT, SLIDING TO THE FLOOR whenever a police car came in sight. When a white woman pointed out one morning that it was illegal for a child of Liomi’s age to sit in the front seat of a car, Jende graciously replied that yes, it was, he knew, thank you so much, madam.
Father and son went to sleep together every night in their bedroom facing a funeral parlor, sometimes to the sounds of curses and scuffles among the grieving. They woke up in the morning with their bodies covered in sweat, the weak fan having brought little relief from the midsummer heat. After bathing, they ate fried ripe plantains and eggs, Jende always forcing Liomi to eat at least a whole plantain and two eggs, and drink a full glass of orange juice. They dressed for the day together, donning jeans and T-shirts, Liomi always making sure he wore the same colors as his father. Their bellies full and lunch bags packed, they walked to the subway station hand in hand and took an uptown subway to pick up the cab in the Bronx. In the subway, they sat close to each other, Liomi’s hand always in Jende’s. After four hours of picking up and dropping off passengers, they took out their lunch—food Neni had cooked and frozen—and ate in the backseat of the car. For dinners they went every other day to one of the African restaurants on 116th Street, where they ordered attiéké with grilled lamb, their favorite meal in all the restaurants there. Sometimes, after they were done eating, they bought ice cream at a shop on 115th Street and walked down Malcolm X Boulevard holding hands and licking ice cream. The days were perfect for Jende, almost heavenly, and even though he missed his wife, he was happy to be alone with his son.
“Papa?” Liomi said to him as they dined at a restaurant adjacent to the 116th Street subway one evening.